Can I? Written by P.L. Cobb

Can I?

Can I,
Chew my way out of this cocoon,
This thing in which I’ve been marooned,
Or can I,
Join the birds–might I fly
Into the lonely void of the sky?

Or must I remain
Trapped, to grow insane,
Or may I walk free
Beneath the churning seas?

Is it solace I seek,
Or is it vengeance to be eked
Out from this miserable soil?
My cup is so full, it overflows, and boils.

I am wild rage, encased,
The result of a fair lady disgraced.
If I must, I shall wait within this cocoon,
For it would not do to taste the sweet honey of your judgement … Too soon.

Mossy, photography by Mitchell Stoycheff

Puppeteer

A smiling face hides more
A facade that one can front
Various tricks can a smile implore
Where truth will only stunt

There is a curtain that hides the plots
A veil of devious mind racing
How can we withstand the onslaught
When we don’t know who we’re facing

Lives are wasted, to men who hold the power
Where what is precious is profane
An obstacle to simply conquer
Until to ashes we all remain

In the end we are tied to falsehood
Forced to hide our truths within
How many waves have we withstood
When we are constantly searching to begin

How can we find the solace
When we don the masks we admonish
How do we wipe clean the canvas
To cut the strings and vanish

The Enigmatic Monster Project

It Starts With A Whisper …

If you need more Rhonda in your life, then you need to visit her website!


Shhhh …..

I try to calm that whisper down. It won’t be subdued. No, it won’t. The words that are coming from the whisper are dark, lonely and scary. So scary and almost evil. Where is that voice coming from? Surely it’s not from me?

It starts with a whisper …. when it is just a whisper you can suppress it  … ignore it … pretend it’s not there … after all it’s just a whisper in your head.

The problem with that …. the whisper can turn into a roar like the raging sea.

As a whisper it’s harmless you say.

“Come dance with me …”

“Come sit with me in this cold darkness …”

“Come lay down with me ….”

“Let me fold you in my arms hide you from the light …”

Crossing over to the dark side for a short spell … then it’s I can handle this! I am in control. I got this! It’s like skipping back and forth … like its nothing ….

Nothing …. darkness … empty … coldness …. the whisper becomes louder and more demanding ….

The calling …. the yearning … the need becomes a heady desire to be fulfilled … the visits into the darkness become more frequent …

The voice becomes more demanding until it takes over you …

The darkness becomes your companion like a lost lover that you have been reunited with and you no longer can bare to be separated from  … then you forget what scared you about that little whisper … why did you ignore it?

Home … the darkness of your soul feels like home … it is where you belonged all the while.

It starts with a whisper … come play with me …

The Enigmatic Monster Project

Do Not Shriek

Spiral down, the dark awaits

Hear its sound, the heart pulsates

Softly whisper, hear them speak

And if you answer: do not shriek

Set Fire To Something, by Mitchell Stoycheff

Set Fire to Something

The acrid smell of gasoline was as strong as it was heady. It pervaded the air like a poisonous cloud assailing the senses. My nose burned from underneath it, and my eyes watered as I continued to pour the liquid my hands shaking.

Around me the night screamed in alarm: every bug was a siren; every bird was mortal. They peered out at me through the darkness of the night. Their accusing glares matched the beating of my heart. They were everywhere, and they pounded against my thoughts like hammer.

I focused on my task, the smell of gasoline. The smell of vengeance and the smell of justice. There was nothing left to my world; all obligations forfeit. Splashing the last few drops I tossed the container aside and fumbled in my pockets for my lighter.

This was it.

As I went to flicked it on I looked up to the face of the scarecrow, his split fibrous grin was dark and slick with liquid. Its eyes were unnaturally focused. Could this demon smell it? Did the scent of the gasoline lead it here. I stumbled back slipping in the slick grass, fear bubbling in the back of my throat. It’s head cocked to one side rolling awkwardly.

It shuffled toward me, almost unstably. Its was a game it played. I had seen it move and I had seen it kill. My eyes looked to the gleaming meat hook stuffed in its right arm, recalling how It strung up Sally from the rafters, how her screams were cut short.

My hand clenched the lighter, almost as tight as my chest heaved. There was no time left, no air left. I was going to die. Would it do the same to me as it did to all the others? Would it hurt. My vision blurred, I was the only one left after all, who would bury me?

The demon lunged at me and I screamed and tried to roll away. The pain was immediate. My fingers dug haphazardly in the earth as struggled to pull myself away from the fiend, knowing that I was within its clutches. It tugged, and my left leg screamed in agony. Terror and pain erupted from my lips in an anguished fearful cry. Tears blurred my vision, as I fought its supernatural strength. It pulled again my body sliding in the slick grass with ease.

Twisting I swung my leg at it in desperation. It took the blows with ease, its feral grin unflinching. Instead in leaned forward, tearing the hook from my leg with ease sending shock waves that splintered up my body. I screamed in pain, I screamed for God, even as the black spots formed in between my tears.

Despite it’s blurry form its soulless eyes were in clarity. It was the eyes of death. I struggled backward as it angled itself even closer, the bloody hook dripping with bits of ragged flesh. I whimpered pleas of sorrow as I continued to struggle backward against the pain. The rough skin of the tree ended my retreat, and I was forced to look up to the demon that loomed over me, like a carving of statue whose eyes glittered even in the night.

I had so many regrets, so many plans for the future. None included this haunting menace. I didn’t want to die. I didn’t want any of this, but it was all I had left. The scent of vengeance and the scent of justice. Could they be the same, when the nightmares of the world came crawling out. My hand trembled as I flicked the lighter, bringing a spark to the darkness.

The demon pealed, the meat hook flashing brightly in the moonlight, but the flash of fire was faster as it consumed him and tree that tethered the demon to this world.

The Enigmatic Monster Project presents.

The Worm King

The worm king

Grovels at me feet, licking my toes

And I cannot look

It makes me sick

The king of worms is quick

To crawl up my legs

And then I am paralyzed.

My temple is compromised

To those who are wise

Why have you forsaken me

Am I simply rubbish

Now that my treasure has been stolen?

Your excuse: I did not guard myself.

Damn you.

Extinguish, by Mitchell Stoycheff

Extinguish

This cheerful world has been captured

Lying forgotten, beaten, and tortured

What once was elation has turned dismal

Reflecting that of an echoing call

Forever reaching

Forever returning

That glimmer that burned now has tarnished

Extinguishing the stars, hope has vanished

A shell vacant and void of emotion

Is all we have left, our tainted poison

Painful Echo, by Mitchell Stoycheff

Painful Echo

Dreams that border nightmare

In the realm of thought revealing

A glimpse into that stare

Recall the painful echoes: up-heaving

Burdened by the past

An icon of woe and pain

How does this unwavering flame last

Against the torrent of the rains

You must face the past with intention

Let your voice stand tall

Unleash your thoughts with conviction

Unveil the truth behind your walls

Friday Lovin', by P. L. Cobb

I’m Mad, Livid, Angry

I’m mad, livid, angry,
I’m just a rusted bucket filled to the brim with roiling ire,
And I hate, I loathe–
I loathe so much that there is a heat from a flame from hell
The fire of all things eternal, and wasted.

My time, you know,
It’s my time that they always clamour for
Even the unwanted ones who won’t leave me be
They come for me like rabid dogs,
Itching to get their fix of wasted dreams,
And it’s mine that they want to waste, not theirs!

And if I fight back I am a witch–
Or worse, an ungrateful %$#@&!
Who wants to listen to the noises which I spend so much time
So much time squeezing from my esophagus
As if I were giving birth to nothing but sound,
Yet the sound is also wasted on them,
More efforts wasted.

And I am mad, I am livid, I am seething,
My cup is empty yet it overfloweth with bubbling, frothing acid,
That acid is bile, or something worse,
Something deep within my stomach–
Methinks a snake, or something better,
And by better I mean bad for you and good for me,
Because for once some foreign god has heard my cry …

And it has deigned to deliver me,
From the vampires, the wraiths, the zombies, the corporations
Whatever I choose to call them, they are the ones whose
Greatest desire is to control me,
Consume me,
Bury me,
And then exhume me.

As if to say: Look, though covered in your blood, we are your saviours!

Ask me again why I am mad.

Sorry About Your Dad, written by P.L Cobb with art by Jake Zaccaria

Rubies

Feel the pain

The sting of the knife

Forget the stain

Of what was once a hopeful life

Let the rubies drain out

Along with thoughtful dreams

Lose yourself in doubt

Tear apart your seams

Mysterious Silver Door, by P.L. Cobb

Mysterious Silver Door

Originally posted on plcobb.com


How I love you, more and more

My yearning, my curiosity

Both work side-by-side

Striving for my (inevitable) demise

Because the day I open you, oh silver door

Is the day I come face-to-face with a hideous surprise

Posturing Prick, by P.L. Cobb

Posturing Prick

There are gals and guys

Who we just can’t stand–god!

They like to cock-off, that’s no lie

Pretending to be more than the truth of what they are.

That’s no surprise though, no, we know you know,

Why–it must be exquisite fun to walk around–I don’t know, maybe–sit around

All day–hissing like cats, gnashing rat-like incisors … What?

(Or this and that)

Mincing words, inelegantly, riling you and riling me,

And there’s no way out!

Stay put, hunker down, cover your ears

Unless you’d like to drown in bullshit:

The choice weapon of the hypocrite.

We’re alone, left to fend for our own

In the cold of the wilderness, against our society’s finest…

The posturing prick,

The rotten scumbag.

And perhaps the prick is just a bag of scum,

Dressed up in a tie, with two button eyes…

(Yum!)

 

Burning Embers: A Haiku, by Mitchell Stoycheff

Burning Embers: A Haiku

Burning embers catch
Like soft lofty mushroom spores
I’m swallowed in fire

Madness, by M. Stoycheff.

Madness

What truths do you behold?

What visions do you see?
Madness is often uncontrolled
When fueled by atrocities

What say you?
Do you wish to speak?
Shall your vision ensue?
Shall we take a peek?

So speak your words
That’s it, don’t be shy.
Shout it from your innards
Let your voice amplify

Hmm, how amusing that your voice is voiceless
You’re but a phantom in your mind
Your actions too, are useless
Your free will has been confined

It’s okay to cry
Humans often do.
The truth is: you don’t want to die
However, there is no other avenue

There is that truth: now behold
That reality you now see
Your madness has awakened tenfold
You shall commit terrible atrocities.

This Is What Little Girls Learn

This Is What Little Girls Learn

Little girls learn fast from their fathers, their mothers, how to bottle up feelings until they chew their way out, making tiny holes, burrowing through delicate skin–like worms, like moles.

Little girls turn into ragged little dolls, eaten from the inside out. They learn to wield bitter feelings like knives, and cold anger like steel hammers, but without knowing how to release them.

Petty fathers teach little girls nothing good, nothing new, not what a good father should. Harsh mothers don’t teach them anything at all, just sit on kitchen chairs, a cloud of resentment, a cloud of despair.

And what should they care about it?

Little girls grow up fast, not knowing how they came to be, how they got from point A to B. They hollow out like metal tubes, a natural progression, pent-up aggression. Hollow tubes–though full of wind–are still empty. Riddled with holes, they corrode. Unable to stand, they collapse.

And little girls turn into women, maybe nothing, and what should we care about it?

We can always make more.

 

Ire: A Definition, by P.L. Cobb

Ire: A Definition

Noun |ˈī(ə)r|

  1. an intense display of anger, openly displayed.

View our source.

Don’t shy away,
step into the smouldering light,
feel the torrid heat from eyes all ablaze.
One million eyes fixing you with an ireful gaze …

You’re naught but a dream,
a cruel nightmare, a colourless haze,
of Azathoth’s imagination, or so it would seem.
Daemon pipers play a hideous tune, the type which stays
embedded within fragile mortal memory, like an echoing scream.

Like seething fools they dance
around their atrocious lord and master
to stay his wrath, prolong their lives, and to entrance
Azathoth, the daemon sultan, recalcitrant and wrathful, an imminent disaster.

Night of A Burning Heart, by M. Stoycheff

Night of A Burning Heart

Cold blood runs a feral heart
As anger rises, it fractures the mind apart
A bloody trail from bare feet
A glimmering knife; a heart’s racing beat
A solemn task you must complete
Spurned by vengeance, its guiding heat
You see them walking, laughing in the night.
Like shattering glass, your anger takes flight
Lunge quickly: take their life
Silence the screams and end your strife
Lock out the sobbing and finish this path
Strike again: give in to Wrath
Now walk away, enjoy the dripping blood
Your heart is free, lost in the flood

Fury, by M. Stoycheff.

Fury

The heart is beating

The mind aching

The calm is gone

All broken bonds

As thoughts dawn

Your conscience is withdrawn

You breath in the fury

A breath of harsh flurries

The shallow are seen

Actions become like daydreams

A flash of red. A spark of the moon

Now silence: a deathly tune.

Eibzorm, God of Scorn, written by P.L. Cobb. Photography by Mitchell Stoycheff.

Eibzorn,God of Scorn

Eibzorn, a god of scorn
And haunter of quarry past.
He seeks out those that mourn
To break them from their fast
–To harass.

Eibzorn wears them down
Reveals a hidden rage;
It adorns his head like a crown.
He appears at once sage.

But only time will reveal the truth
That he pursues, with zeal, truculent emotion,
With a ruthless devotion
–Forsooth.

That which he wears upon his neck,
Like teeth upon string: sour feelings,
Acrid sensibilities, dour sentimentalities, alack!
Such is Eibzorn and his dealings.

The god of scorn is no fool
Yet his victims pay the price,
Each one a tool–
A well sucked dry by trenchant avarice.

Eibzorn, a god of scorn
Ingratiates, manipulates, and denigrates
Strangers, challengers, and enemies sworn
To satisfy a lust incarnate.

Truculence: A Definition, by P.L. Cobb. Photography by Mitchell Stoycheff.

Truculence: A Definition

Noun |tru-cu-lence|

  1. The quality or state of being truculent.

Truculent
Adjective |tru-cu-lent|

  1. Feeling or displaying ferocity: cruel, savage.
  2. Deadly, destructive.
  3. Scathingly harsh: vitriolic.
  4. A thing that shares a bed with Wrath, amongst other things.

View our source.

Wrath: A Definition, written by P.L. Cobb. Photography by Mitchell Stoycheff.

Wrath: A Definition

Noun |raTH, or rawth|

  1. Strong, stern, or fierce anger.
  2. Vengeance or punishment as the consequence of anger.
  3. A thing so caustic, so toxic, that it can destroy a person’s sense of self-worth.
  4. The slumbering beast within each of us.

View our source.

What Evil Lives In The Shadows...

What Evil Lives In The Shadows…

Night comes to envelop you in your sweet slumber. The cool winds outside rattle the windows. The lights go out and only the shadows are there to comfort you as they slink across the floor and come out of hiding from their safe havens. They live and breathe in those dark corners of your room where dust and other evil things lurk.

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As a child I would always linger in my doorway. The closet had to be securely shut. I would peek under my bed, which rarely housed anything but dust. I never wanted to give the monsters a reason to come back again with food or toys. I would jump into my bed. Run and jump in.

My sheets still tucked under the corners of the top mattress. I didn’t believe in god but I prayed. Prayed that I would make it through the night and the monsters would stay at bay or bother someone else. I would wiggle into my bed sheets, pull them up to my neck, and wait for my mother to come in to tuck me in. She would check the closet, check the corners, and check under the bed. She would tuck me in and leave the night light on and the door open.

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My imagination would play tricks on me. Forever would I hear noises that I was certain bared teeth and glowing red eyes. Not once had a monster ever visited me, but that never stopped me from keeping my feet and limbs from hanging off my bed at night. You just never know!

As an adult I just don’t see the sense of taking an unnecessary chance.

Sweet dreams!

From your,

Riveting Jacked-In Dreamy Mind-Bender

R. J. Davies.

Afternoon, by P. L. Cobb

Anxiety Evolves Into Something Else

This is part of an ongoing series exclusive to my Patreon: A Huntress of Beasts.
The entire series will be available to patrons only.
You are currently reading draft 3, any suggestions for edits are welcome!

She left her body, dazed, confused. At the other end of the room her body was slumped against the wall. A bright red gash stood in stark contrast with her lemon yellow shirt. From her left ear all the way down to her navel oozed a line of blood onto the bleached-white linoleum. Her face was blurred, as if it had never been.

It was odd how one could feel so free and yet so unfinished at the same time. The body had served as a varnish for her soul; from the corner of her eye she caught herself in a mirror. A shadow stared back at her.

Having the ability to feel things outside of her body was different. Right now she felt a level of anxiety that was so much more intimate with her than if she were alive. Now that everything was bared for the cosmos to gawk at, there was nothing to hide, and Anxiety–pure emotion personified–was given free reign over her. Slowly it began to break away from her corpse, a distinct hum radiating from the thing as it crawled to her, the spirit. A morbid fascination stole over her as she watched.

When It was close enough it began to grope her.

And then it began to dig inside of her.

The Anxiety moved with a such a violent fervour that she was forced to dart away. Running was a mistake. It was useless because there was no where to go, which served as encouragement for the rabid beast. Anxiety just came back again with renewed vigour.

Then it reached the the spot where the choicest of morsels hid–the place where every unsavoury aspect became her–in a crack upon her soul. She did not relish that, in fact it tasted sour, like acid. And she hated it. All she could do was flit back and forth, not unlike a caged bird.

Anxiety’s mouth grew wide, a hiss escaping its great maw, conveying deep-seated frustration. For the first time it had been forced to show something other than its namesake. The creature hunched in on itself, quivering with rage now. Rage coloured the creature, who had been no more than a grey shadow moments before, into a poisonous shade of blue. Blue became purple and purple became red. Then without warning the colour shift began anew, this time erratic.

As the changes slowed to a stop Anxiety’s hunch became severe, more akin to a folding-in on itself than a hunch. It was creating a cocoon. In the flickering lights of the kitchen she saw the cocoon shell glitter, obsidian-like. Beneath the shell she caught a flicker, the creature inside very much alive. She inched closer and spied the outline of a nymph.

For the first time since she had died she could breath. In its frenzy Anxiety had given her the chance to escape. There was no doubt in her mind that it still lusted for her, nor was there any doubt that it would violate her if given the chance.

For the second time since her death she looked into the mirror. Why did she have a mirror in the kitchen? She couldn’t recall. Deep within the glass was the shadow.

The shadow was her.

Without the glamour of flesh or bone she was grey, the same grey as a pigeon. In the kitchen light she even caught an iridescent shimmer.

Was being grey so bad? When she was raised she had been raised to believe in absolutes, blessed truths and abject lies, black and white . . . When she could think for herself she realized that it was all a lie. Life was not black and white. Sometimes it was the shimmering green of a hummingbird, the fiery orange of a tiger, the brazen sheen of an eagle’s eye . . . And sometimes it was a muted grey, like a pigeon.

No. There was nothing wrong with this.

She gave the obsidian cocoon a farewell glance. When she had said her goodbyes she kissed her body on each cheek, and found the open window above the sink. She flew into the night sky, free for the moment. She knew that as soon as Anxiety emerged it would be on the search for her. It was not a pleasant thought. Even more unpleasant was knowing that it would not be the same: Anxiety would evolve into something else.

Anxiety always did. After having its fill of angst it would crave something of more substance. Before it killed her that had been the air from her lungs, the hormones of fear, the tissues of her brain, and then her blood. Perhaps that was why she saw no face, because there wasn’t one to be seen. What had she kissed then? Her skull?

She shivered.

In all of this there was something which was not quite right. Throughout her life she had always experienced Anxiety as a feeling. Feelings didn’t kill, they didn’t lust after you. Whatever had attacked her–

–No. No! A new breed of thought–tasteless, ominous–reared an ugly head at her. None of it stuck, as if she were incapable of comprehension. Fear made her waiver in the sky until all control was lost to her and she dropped like a rock. The thought of closing her eyes did cross her mind, but when she saw the woman below her she couldn’t. A woman below her, looking up at her, and a black aura.

No, not just black. The aura radiated from the woman, much like sun rays, only with an obsidian glitter, eerily cocoon-like. Even with her lack of body she still felt the instinctive tightening of her chest. I can’t breath!